The End of the World
by bj
Summary: It's not supposed to be like this. An Annie Wright story.


Disclaimer: Yada yada, characters referred to are not mine, yada yada, I created Annie Wright for my own pleasure, not to defame, shame, or blame anybody else…blah-us, blah-blah-us, bladdi-blah-um.  
Author's Note: Well, I figured that maybe it was time to stick her in where she least belongs: events as seen on the show. How does she hold up, structure-wise?  
  
The End of the World  
By BJ Garrett  
  
I'm sitting on my couch, the television is blaring useless commercials at me, but I can't hear them. Everything has come down around me; I can't believe this building is still standing when thirty minutes of quiet conversation was enough to topple the simplest assumptions of my life.  
  
* The President of the United States must be a good man. He must have good intentions, or the people wouldn't have chosen him.  
* Politicians don't really lie. That's just a myth, propaganda from the jealous press.  
  
That last one my father taught me. He was a two-term congressman. I can still see the little letters in brackets beside his name on the evening news: "(D-Penn)" or "(Lt.Com. US Navy, RET)."  
  
Congressman Richard Wright. A good man.  
  
That was his re-election slogan. There was no third campaign. He resigned when he and my mother divorced, the coward. I locked myself in my room for a week when they told me. Just like now, I couldn't comprehend or accept a world so drastically changed, my world so terribly demolished. I had to rebuild myself and my world. It's gonna be a bitch to do it again.  
  
My mother will call me, I know it. She's going to say stupid things and ask why I wasn't there at the press conference. She'll ask if I knew, if I could tell he was sick, if I'm going to work tomorrow...mom stuff.  
  
Sam told me to go home. He said it was going to be a rough night, and smart people should be safe in their houses, watching Dateline and CNN immediately thereafter.  
  
He wasn't just talking about the weather. Damn him.  
  
The conference is starting. CJ's words mean nothing to me. It's as though she's speaking another language.  
  
I pull my knees to my chest and hit the mute button. I don't want to hear it anymore; I just don't, putting my hands over my ears and my forehead to my chest.  
  
It's not supposed to be like this.  
  
I always thought that there would be a hero who didn't have to fall, one without a flaw that killed him, one without a destiny of ruin. Maybe I'm right, but at this moment Jed Bartlet isn't that hero for me.  
  
I wonder what Sam's thinking?  
  
Stupid question. He knows. He's known for days, I'm sure. If not weeks. Months. Years. Of course they couldn't tell me, it would pose a threat to their control of the story. They have to keep rigid command of what everyone else knows for as long as they can. I understand that.  
  
But it still hurts.  
  
I've been lied to by many people. Every person I've ever loved.  
  
This hurts the most of all. This cuts into me like a saw blade; jagged, gnawing, rusty.  
  
The storm is lashing at my living room window, and I get up to close the drapes. I can't stand the reflection of myself on the couch with the glowing television any longer. As I tug the fabric along the rod, lightning flashes, and the window opens, allowing slashes of rain to hit my face and shoulders as I lean out to grab the swinging pane. With the wind whipping my hair into my face and the darkness of the storm, I can barely see, except for the strange silvery glint of the rain through the air. I grab the latch and pull the window closed, turning back to the room just in time to see the President step behind the podium.  
  
There he is. He doesn't look ill. But then, he didn't before. Why did I expect a wheelchair, or crutches, or pale-drawn gauntness? Shades of FDR, I suppose.  
  
He is quiet; I can see the silhouette of reporters' heads in front of the camera. He points, says something. I suppose a question is asked. He speaks again, shortly.  
  
The silence is long, in that room and this one. There could be screaming, shots, the voice of God, in that room, and I wouldn't hear it. I don't think he would either. It feels like it's just him standing there, facing them, the world, himself...me. I notice for the first time that his hair is wet, as is his jacket and shirt. I touch my face, feel the rain slick on my own skin, and realize with a shiver the chillness of my soaked tee and sports bra, the heaviness of my drenched hair on my back.  
  
The water connects us. I believe.  
  
He moves his hands below the podium, turns his eyes away, smiles slightly.  
  
It might be the end of the world, but he's a great man, not just a good one. I believe.  



End file.
